


Sundays

by Nahara



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-15
Updated: 2011-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:52:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nahara/pseuds/Nahara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s something about Arthur’s mother’s latest boy toy...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sundays

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at the Merlin kinkmeme on LiveJournal. Experimented with the style, hopefully in a good way...

Arthur hates a lot of things about Sundays:  

 

 

1\. Carrots. Arthur never has, and never will, like carrots. Why do they have to be such an integral part of a Sunday roast anyway? He doesn’t care how many times his mother cajoles, asking him, _wouldn’t you like to see in the dark?_ He stopped believing that universal parental lie about carrot induced night-vision when he was ten.

2\. The awkward silences because

3\. His mother has insisted that her latest toy boy sit down with them and

4\. The fact that each new boyfriend gets younger – or more accurately, Arthur just gets closer in age with every year. Arthur adores his mother, yet he finds it harder and harder to overlook her vice for young men. When he was little he didn’t care so much who they were just that they weren’t his father. Once he’d grown out of the childish expectation that his parents would fall back into each other’s arms, Arthur made a sort of peace with the string of men that spent their time with his mother. He’d even liked one of her lovers, a young fencer named Ethan with striking green eyes. Ethan had taught Arthur the rules of fencing and instilled in him a life-long passion for the sport, a passion which lasted long after Ethan and Mrs Pendragon’s. But when

5\. The latest toy boy is younger than him... well that just takes the piss. This new man is unusual, even for his mother. He’s not broody or edgy – her usual artistically-misunderstood flavour. He’s tall, a bit taller even than Arthur, but slim and awkward. He has a long face with a narrow jaw and ears that stick out too much to be cute. He is unbearably geeky; he’s even wearing an ill-fitting black t-shirt with the slogan 'Schrödinger’s Cat Is Dead'. Arthur snorts. S _wat_. His name is Merlin and he blushes, laughing self deprecatingly when he introduces himself to Arthur, sticking out a long skinny hand. They shake. Merlin’s hand is firm and warm. When Arthur looks up, properly looks, it’s into blue eyes he’s seen before.

6\. Realising that he _knows_ this latest boy toy. He’s seen him around the university campus and may have not so accidentally walked right into him the other day because the he’d looked like an easy target. The realisation makes Arthur want to swear long, loud and inventively, but instead he finds himself asking Merlin if they know each other. The other shrugs at the question and says that they go to the same university; he’s seen Arthur _around_. He doesn’t mention the confrontation. Arthur is wondering whether or not to press Merlin about it but loses his nerve when Mrs Pendragon ushers them into the dining room with a breezy smile and a pair of salad tongs. After they’re all comfortably seated, Arthur is

7\. Asking how his mother and her latest met. Arthur doesn’t really care or want any details but always asks just to be polite. His mother seems to appreciate even feigned interest from her only son. But asking is always a can of worms because

8\. Inevitably the stories are much more than Arthur ever wanted to know about the life of his cougar mother and her outdated hippy mentality. But Merlin smiles kindly and says that it isn’t a very interesting story, they just met in the queue at the bank and got talking. Arthur isn’t sure he quite believes this but his mother doesn’t object and so Arthur leaves it, relieved, until

9\. He starts to notice the eyes his mother is making at her toy boy. Merlin doesn’t seem to realise that he’s the object of so much attention and is busy cutting the roast chicken, a silly little smile on his lips as though he’s in familiar company and always sits at that particular spot to eat Sunday dinner with Arthur and Mrs Pendragon. Arthur wonders if Merlin is dense… or perhaps he just likes to play the simpleton while secretly enjoying stringing his lovers along. Which only brings to mind

10\. Unwanted images of Arthur’s mother doing _things_ with her toy boys… Arthur shakes his head and hopes fervently he isn’t blushing. He also hopes the images won’t come back. But they do. If slightly edited. Instead of his mother – which was disgusting and Freudian on so many levels – Arthur is instead presented with an image of Merlin lying naked and prone on a bed, blue eyes watching and tongue licking over his lips, full of hunger and intent. Arthur shivers and closes his eyes briefly. He takes a large gulp of the wine to try and wash the thoughts out of his head with alcohol. When he glances over at Merlin, the young man is finally looking at Mrs Pendragon but the look is odd. It’s charming and warm and full of amusement but there’s nothing sexual about it at all. It throws Arthur off guard for a moment and he wonders if perhaps his mother hasn’t quite got to this one. But that can’t be because

11\. Arthur’s mother never invites platonic friends to Sunday dinner. Besides, she was clearly smitten with Merlin and the feeling appeared to mutual if the blush that was creeping up Merlin’s face was anything to go by. Inexplicably this makes Arthur rather angry. He stabs at the roast potatoes on his plate with more force than is strictly necessary. The vicious movement brings Arthur back to the attention of Merlin and Mrs Pendragon, which is a mistake because his mother turns to him and

12\. He's being asked, _Have you found a boyfriend yet?_

13\. Right in front of a man that’s _banging his mother_ and who he’s known for less than fifteen minutes – not counting the time he was a dickhead and walked into him at University, or the stupid little fantasy he’d just been playing out in a momentary plunge into madness. At any rate, Arthur’s never sure why she asks the question because usually it throws the immature boy-things into a panic, unable to handle their lover’s son being the same age as themselves _and_ gay. Toy boy meltdown. (Although some in the past had perked up at the news, eyes cutting selatiously between mother and son. Arthur really doesn’t like to dwell on the ideas that must have been entering their depraved little minds.) But to give Merlin his credit, the young man doesn’t stare too hard, and manages to look away long enough to decline the bowl of steaming carrots being offered by Mrs Pendragon.

14\. The pointed looks from his mother when he’s avoiding answering her question. And if he doesn’t say something soon, she’s going to ask again. He knows that look because he gets it himself. Like mother like son. So

15\. He has to say that, no, he _hasn’t_ found a boyfriend yet but he isn’t looking too hard, thank you very much. He isn’t interested in a conquest or having a never ending string of men that mean nothing to him.

16\. His mother laying her napkin on the table and leaving the dining room, stony at his lack of feeling and apparent lack of remorse. Arthur knows he’s in the wrong. He shouldn’t have said it but it was one thing too many. He doesn’t look at Merlin, but scowls at the table. The only sound is the distant, muffled ticking of the grandmother clock in the hallway. But then at last, because silence seems made to be broken –

17\. Hearing himself say that he’s sorry. He’s sorry for making Merlin privy to a private argument, sorry to have brought the meal to such an unpleasant conclusion. The words feel like sand in his mouth, scraping their way out. Merlin doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks at Arthur with those blue eyes that sometimes seem black. And then he tells Arthur that he thinks he’s a prat. It isn’t what Arthur is expecting at all and he feels himself flush in anger and embarrassment. So he hits back, asking Merlin what he knows about the Pendragons really? What gives him the right to say something like that to Arthur and after he’d _apologised_ for his behaviour? And what was someone like Merlin doing with a woman over twice his age, a woman that could be his mother? Had he no shame or self respect? Then he’s

18\. Being torn a new one by an enraged toy boy. Named _Merlin_. In another time and another place Arthur would have marvelled at the sight, but not then. At that moment it’s actually rather terrifying… not that Arthur will admit to this. Anyone would think he was crazy, one only need look at Merlin and the idea of being scared of that scrawny bag of bones was laughable. But, as far as Arthur is concerned, these hypothetical people hadn’t seen Merlin in a passion. He’s not only a little scared but

19\. Turned on by his mother’s _boyfriend_. That’s not something which is supposed to ever happen; a sentence Arthur never thought he’d be in the position of even _thinking_. But there it is. He’s bloody hard now, and to add insult to injury he can’t stand up to his full height because then the bulge in his trousers would be very noticeable. So he sits there and lets Merlin lay into him. When Merlin is finally done yelling, he huffs a few angry breaths, eyes a little wild (and rather dazed as if he’d just had some very good sex – a detail Arthur wishes he hadn’t noticed). Then Merlin wheels around and a moment later Arthur hears the slam of his mother’s door. So Arthur is left alone with the cold chicken and a hard-on to end all hard-ons.

20\. Staying the night in his mother’s house. It used to be his home, he even sleeps in the same bedroom, but it really doesn’t feel like home any more. Everything seems smaller and worn. He flips on the dim overhead light and shuts the door quietly. Images of Merlin are still swirling around his head and all he can think of is touching his cock and relieving the overwhelming pressure.

21\. Wanking _in his mother’s house_. He has many memories of lying on that very bed, eyes tight shut, thinking of some dark-haired actor or musician and pumping away at his hard cock. The shame of doing it, of _needing_ to do it. And here he is, wanking like some randy teenager. It’s as though the last ten years never happened. His jeans are unzipped and hang off his hips to allow full access to his growing erection. It bobs slightly and Arthur has a moment of self-pity at the sight; all dressed up and no one to see. But it only a moment, and then he looks away and wraps fingers firmly around himself. He hisses. At first he doesn’t allow himself to think of Merlin, only about the pressure and working out a rhythm, but then he hears a male laugh from the other room. _Merlin_. Arthur keens and the pumping becomes more desperate. He rolls his foreskin between thumb and forefinger, the flushed head of his cock appearing and the disappearing, faster and faster, until he's fully erect and cum is beading at the head. Merlin’s face hovers over Arthur, spectral, lips slicked by a pink tongue and those angry, sex-spent eyes watching Arthur jerk himself frantically. He imagines those lips parting in to a smile and lowering to his cock, a huff of hot breath across him... And then he’s coming hard and messy into his fist, dick pulsing against his fingers. He has to turn into the pillow to muffle the cry that escapes him, hips jerking erratically until he’s spent. He stays where his is for a long time, just lying on top of the bed and letting his eyes droop to almost closing. Finally he moves, grabbing the edge of the duvet and pulling it over himself. He tucks his knees up close to his chest in an unconscious childhood habit. Sleep comes moments later, plagued by blue eyes.

22\. Waking up in the middle of the night with the blankets wrapped around him like a straitjacket and needing to piss so badly his bladder is cramping. Arthur spends a few confusing moments extricating himself from his cell of Egyptian cotton, before stumbling blindly to the toilet across the landing. He doesn’t turn on the light – he’s too desperate to _pee_ to worry about light but this just makes what happens next his fault… apparently. He’s standing there over the toilet bowl, relieving himself in the dark when he’s suddenly blinded by the electric overhead being switched on. Blinking and turning to face the door Arthur sees

23\. Merlin standing in the frame completely naked. Arthur says nothing and he can’t stop peeing now that he’s started. Besides, he’s much too interested in the full-body blush that is coming over Merlin. It’s actually… cute. Merlin hasn’t said anything, just looks utterly shocked and remains frozen to the spot in his embarrassment. His eyes dart around uncertainly before they land for a long, protracted moment on Arthur’s dick, mouth working soundlessly. Arthur wants to laugh but keeps himself in check. He finishes, slowly tucking himself back in and flushing the toilet. Lost your clothes, then? he asks, nonchalantly. He turns on the tap and waits for the water to warm. Merlin finally opens his mouth to say he needs to use the toilet. Arthur picks up the bar of soap with one hand and waves at the toilet with the other. Well, there it is. Merlin isn’t so impressed and says he wants to do it without a spectator. Arthur does laugh then. _I_ don’t watch, Merlin. His inflection and the laughter makes Merlin’s blush flame darker and now it’s spreading down… low. If Arthur’s not careful, he’ll make himself hard again. It’s frustrating, this sudden attraction to one bloke. He hasn’t felt this electrified by someone since that strange year he spent fucking Devlin. They hadn’t been right for each other, not in terms of personality and longevity but they went half mad for each other’s bodies. Devlin had been broad with such a clever tongue that knew just how to coax and enrage Arthur. Devlin in many ways was the direct opposite of Merlin: short, broad, dirty-blonde, aggressive and callus. Arthur glances to the side. Merlin is over the toilet now, having moved in a slouching awkward shuffle to the bowl, clearly unhappy but just as desperate as Arthur had been to go to the bathroom. Arthur rinses his hands thoroughly, as he hears the slosh of Merlin finally relieving himself. Arthur reaches for the hand towel hanging from a ring on the wash stand. He’s whistling a jaunty little song he can’t remember the words to. Merlin’s voice cuts over the tune and Arthur is

24\. Being called a prat. Again. _You like making me uncomfortable, don’t you? Get a kick out of embarrassing your mother’s boyfriends? Can’t… can’t stand having another man in her life?_

25\. Now Arthur’s going to have a fit of rage in the bathroom, in the middle of the night, at a naked man he’s been fantasising about, who happens to be fucking his mother. Arthur really does hate Sundays. He feels himself go calm, like the eye of a storm, his anger swarming around him at gale force speeds. He turns to Merlin who’s flushed the toilet and is looking lost again, hand hovering around his cock in a rather bleated attempt to either hide or protect it. Arthur smiles his most charming smile, the kind that makes people melt for him. Merlin shivers, nipples hardening. He’s taking a step back, and another, trying to get away from Arthur’s potent charisma. But he backs right into the bathroom wall with a little _ooph_. Arthur places his hands on the wall either side of Merlin’s face, arms caging Merlin in. Then he moves in close, enough to see the beginning of morning stubble, to look into blue eyes and see flecks of grey . His grin lessens as he whispers to Merlin, dangerous. _Don’t presume you know me. At all._ He stays there for a long time, looking at Merlin, pinning him with more than his arms. Standing this close for so long Arthur’s breathing is becoming ragged and unsteady. Merlin is breathing pretty heavy too and his whole body seems to be drooping, shoulders sagging, eyes barely open but still watching. Arthur knows he should step away, leave the bathroom and not look back. And honestly he’s ready to do that, but he can’t help but move forward just a bit more, to let Merlin know he is in charge of the situation. But it’s a big mistake because moving forward only reveals that Merlin is aroused, erect cock digging into Arthur’s slept-in jeans.

26\. Kissing his mother’s boyfriend. He can’t help himself from dipping forward, compelled to touch lips with Merlin, knowing that Merlin isn’t impervious to him. And Merlin doesn’t resist, he lets Arthur enter his space, to lick across the join of upper and lower lip. He opens his mouth to him, easy and unhurried. Merlin moans, soft and pliant – such an intimate noise that it goes straight through Arthur. With that he brings his hands away from the wall and trails the left across Merlin’s chest and down to his bony hip, holding on for dear life. The right doesn’t make it that far, stops to cup the side of Merlin’s neck, thumb pressed lightly against thrumming pulse. Arthur begins to rub his thigh against Merlin’s naked erection, his own growing harder by the second. Slow movements, almost languid at first, but he can feel the pulse below his fingertips picking up speed. Without thinking he moves his arms away and takes off his shirt in one fluid motion before slamming himself against Merlin, against the bathroom wall, chest to chest, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. And that’s when it all goes to hell in basket.

27\. More than kissing his mother’s boyfriend – much more – and liking it. He loves it, in fact. Dragging his hands across Merlin’s stomach, scratching just to see the red marks left across the expanse of porcelain skin. He is branding Merlin as his, touching someone that isn’t. In the back of his mind is the thought that his mother has been here, has see Merlin’s neck arch like that, his voice whisper those words, felt his burning cock between her own fingers and _squeezing_. It should stop him – shock him! – but it doesn’t. It only pushes him further, trying to bridge the gap that still stands between them. There should never be any gaps here, he thinks, only miles of skin. Merlin is rutting against Arthur with vigorous abandon, head tapping out an awkward rhythm on the bathroom wall with every jerk of his body. Arthur shifts them and they’re sliding down to the floor, hissing at the cool tiles on their burning skin. Merlin is running his shaking hands through Arthur’s hair while Arthur continues to scratch and lick his way across every inch of skin he can find. He doesn’t want to think this might be the only time he gets to ever do this. He doesn’t want to think why this bothers him. Merlin’s fingers are long and surprisingly dexterous as they move from Arthur’s hair, tripping down his bare spine to hold the curve of Arthur’s ass, coaxing him forward and up. He does as he’s bid and they begin to move together, rough and hasty. The friction is maddening. Merlin is making soft desperate noises at the back of his throat with each thrust of Arthur’s thigh against his cock – a noise that Arthur learns to listen for. He hears it loudest when he touches Merlin just there, or _here_ , while kissing his collarbone or licking the shell of his ear. When the sounds stop abruptly it startles Arthur into looking up. Merlin’s whole body has gone taught, still for just a millisecond before he erupts into movement, bucking into his orgasm with an energy that’s exhilarating and terrifying. Arthur watches, startled and electrified by such a response. He can feel himself following Merlin, reaching that final height before the fall… and though he knows it’s coming the force of it is still a jolt. His vision spirals and goes to black. He’s grunting and grinding still, unable to stop. When he’s finally finished and the light begins to filter back from wherever it had gone, he slumps and rolls to the floor next to Merlin. They don’t look at each other, but lie side by side slowing their breathing to match each other. Arthur thinks he could fall asleep like this, arm still touching Merlin’s warm skin. But suddenly Arthur is

28\. Being left. Merlin has sat up and grabbed out at the washstand to steady his rise off the floor. He stands for a long time, hand on the marble counter top, fingers curled into an almost-fist. When he moves it’s to grab at the toilet roll. He tares a huge wad of it and begins to wipe away the mess on his stomach and cock, hands trembling dangerously. When he’s done, he throws the paper into the toilet and flushes. Evidence erased. Merlin doesn’t say anything then, but flicks his eyes briefly at Arthur still on the floor. A blush starts high on his cheeks and he turns away abruptly. Arthur watches silently as Merlin sends a look of wild confusion towards his pale reflection in the mirror. And Arthur continues to watch as Merlin opens the door and leaves.

29\. Lying, spent, on the cold bathroom floor. At last he moves, making his way slowly to his room and shutting the door with a click. He sits on the edge of his bed and rests his head in his hands. Arthur tries not to think too much and just concentrates on kneading palms into eyes that feel scratchy from exhaustion. He’s so busy not thinking that he almost misses the sound. Eventually the scuffling mummer becomes louder, bringing Arthur’s head up. It’s coming from his mother’s room: the squeak of a mattress and two people making the unmistakable sound of _sex_. Arthur feels his breath leave him in one long _whoosh_. His heart picks up speed, fuelled by anger and hurt and he’s rooted to the bed for a long time, trapped by the little female groans of ecstasy in the other room. He can see Merlin in his mind’s eye, neck arching, fingers running through blond hair, whispering… Arthur has had enough. He won’t let himself hear anymore, so he stumbles to the desk chair in the corner of the room where he threw his shirt and jumper earlier. Once dressed he stuffs his feet into a pair of trainers and doesn’t care how much noise he makes as he leaves his room and slams the front door.

30\. Walking alone in the dark. The moon is bright in the black, an almost perfectly round disk. Arthur isn’t wearing enough layers to keep the winter wind from sneaking through fleece and cotton to his fevered skin. His breath comes out in puffs of white. Arthur doesn’t know where he’s headed, just walks to the end of the street and turns right. Once around the corner his pace picks up speed until he’s jogging and then running, sprinting to nowhere. He’s the only one around, everyone else tucked up in a cocoon of blankets and safe, suburban brick. The pounding of his feet on the pavement matches his heart, beat for beat, and Arthur feels likes a machine that someone forgot to switch off. Like the fucking Energizer Bunny. He runs until he’s too tired to keep going, drifting to a stop outside a small park fenced in by ominous metal spikes. Arthur remembers the place as a childhood haunt: football practice, scraped knees, smoking weed behind a tree with a couple of mates. Arthur comes to a wooden bench with the words _Mac is gay_ scrawled across it in the typical style of a teenage tagger. Arthur sits down, back blocking the first word. It makes him smile, savagely, to think of someone walking by to see him sitting next to the words _is gay_ – like a glaring, rainbow painted sign. Merlin is on his mind, weighing Arthur down. He doesn’t want to remember but his memory doesn’t like to let go. He’s a secret packrat. Arthur spends a long time on that bench, hands trapped under his armpits to keep warm; he almost doesn’t notice the gradual lightening of the sky. It turns from black to navy, from pink to orange. It’s going to be a fucking beautiful morning. Perfect.

 

1\. Mondays: Arthur thinks he could grow to hate them too. Eventually Arthur stirs from the bench, joints stiff and nose-tip frozen. He walks back and it seems a much shorter journey than it had before. Mrs Pendragon pops her head into the hall when he shuts the front door. She smiles slightly at him, almost apologetic. They never talk about any of the stuff they both know he can hear between her and her boy toys – but he’s particularly anxious to makes sure this will not be the first time. He bounces on the balls of his feet, eyes flicking to the stairs. His mum asks him when he left and where did he go? Arthur replies with an airy wave of the hand to imply everywhere and nowhere. He’s ushered (much to his dismay) into the dining room where two places have been set. Arthur’s mum disappears into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder that she’s made scrambled eggs and he should sit down and eat with her before he heads back to uni. Arthur does as she says and stares at the empty white plate before taking a deep breath and asking, _Where’s Merlin, then?_ There is silence and then Mrs Pendragon is in the dining room with a pan full of steaming eggs in one hand and a spatula in the other. _Gone_ , she says, eyes a little red and her mouth trying not to droop too far. She isn’t looking at him. _Gone. For good._ She dishes out the eggs, and passes Arthur the ketchup. They eat in silence and Arthur thinks that’s the end of it but Mrs Pendragon opens her mouth again. _Though_ , she says casually, picking up her glass of orange juice, _he says he’ll see you around_.

Mondays are, perhaps, a bit better than Sundays, Arthur decides with a mouth full of breakfast. Mondays are new days; Mondays are the future.


End file.
